


Perhaps, perhaps not

by Korrigan131



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Fix-it fic, M/M, retro F1
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-22 14:12:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3731860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Korrigan131/pseuds/Korrigan131
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1969, Jackie meets François. The rest is history. Mostly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1969: Crystal Palace - Allegro (“at speed”)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elyndys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elyndys/gifts).



> This is the F1 Slash Secret Santa fic that I started writing for Elyndys back in I think 2012? 2013? Whatever date it was, it got stupidly out of hand and I didn't even slightly make the deadline(!). I realised the other day that I'm probably never going to finish it properly, so I figured I should tidy up what I have nearly finished as best I can, and post those sections as they are.
> 
> Also, this is a pairing I’ve never written before. I did my best with the research here, but every now and again I seemed to find contradictions, so I sincerely hope it all came out ok. I also sincerely hope that it’s even vaguely close to what you were after at the time, or, if you can't remember what that was, that it's acceptable in general…! I can't in any way promise that it was worth the ridiculous wait though, for which I am _eternally sorry_.
> 
> Unbetaed - tell me if you spot a mistake, because I have read and reread this thing so many times I doubt I'd even notice if I'd switched every instance of Jackie's name to "Felipe"...

It's 1969 at Crystal Palace, and the sun is shining, the sound of engines roaring as strings of cars thread through the tree lined turns of the track, echoing up from the tarmac into the blue sky and to the clouds, which race across it as if trying to keep up with the cars below.

Near the front of the field is a blue Matra, its driver’s helmet ringed in tartan, and he's gunning for the lead. Not that that's any sort of surprise – he’s won every race he’s finished this year in the very top tier, and he has the championship more than just in his sights. Today though there are no championship points to be won, and he races because he can, because he wants to, because it's what he does, what he _is_ ; speeding down the straight, powering through the right-hander, then into a sweeping left, a kink to the right and back on the power; it's instinctual, it's the full extent of his concentration, his world in the moment, and it's just as it should be.

Except it's not. Not quite. There's a car in front which he just can't pass, and whilst he could understand that if it was one of his usual rivals, it's not a helmet he recognises. But there's no shortage of skill in their driving, unflustered by the competition on their tail as they keep it smooth, keep it mistake free, keep pushing... and keep Jackie behind. He'd be impressed, and wonder who this driver is, but he's still behind the wheel now, so those things will have to wait until after the chequered flag. For the moment, there's nothing but him and the car and the competition that doesn't need a name, and the track, the throttle, the steering, the perfect power for the next bend, the ideal line for the next corner, stringing it all together into the perfect lap, and then into the next...

*

The track is a kaleidoscope of noise after the race; engines still running thrumming an undercurrent of sound, punctuated with the occasional roar of a car still underway, the scattered laughter and chatter of the drivers as they congratulate and commiserate with each other and their teams, the ticking of cooling machinery, the background sounds of the gathered crowd, all a familiar soundtrack as Jackie weaves his way between the pulled up cars and groups of grimy faces, stopping to exchange brief words with friends and rivals as he goes in search of that unfamiliar helmet. He knows something special when he sees it, and he's seen it today.

Then he spots him; yellow, blue, white, and red stripes, hauling himself out of a yellow and red Tecno, already pulling off his gloves and lifting his chin to unclip his helmet.

"Well you certainly weren't making it easy for me today!" Jackie greets as he strolls over, the other driver looking around as he realises he's being spoken to. "Jackie Stewart," he introduces himself.

The driver lifts away his helmet and tugs off his balaclava, freeing a mass of short but unruly dark curls.

"Jackie Stewart," the man replies in a soft roll of a French accent, gently, as if considering the words as more than just a handful of syllables, treating the name itself with a respect he clearly believes it deserves. "François Cevert. It is a pleasure to meet you."

François takes the offered hand, and Jackie looks up.

It would be impossible for Jackie to say what he noticed first, because he notices everything at once, his every sense finding something to focus on until there’s nothing but the man in front of him. There's cigarette smoke and cologne intertwined with fuel and fumes and sweat and grease, there's a firm, solid grip that's somehow gentle, there's the enticingly exotic sound of his name repeated back in that accent, low and considered, there's effortless charm and dangerously good looks, there's a dazzling smile of devastating brightness, honest, open, and evidently delighted, almost childlike it’s so genuine, which he wouldn't be able to tear his gaze away from if it weren't for those eyes, which sparkle and twinkle with an almost unearthly brilliance. He's caught by that gaze, anchored by the hand he's still grasping, overwhelmed somehow by everything, and he doesn't know how long he stares for, jaw slightly slack from a stalled sentence – it’s probably only seconds, but it feels like it stretches, a moment that somehow exists outside of everything else.

"But," and the smile grows wider, the eyes glinting with the slightest hint of a teasing mischief (there’s no question that he could have anyone he wanted with that smile), "you are in Formula One, are you not? Why would I, _make life easy for you_?"

He's never lost for words, not Jackie. He's the one who is never without something to say, even if perhaps he shouldn't say anything (it was Jim who was always the quiet one, not him), but anything resembling a reply is beyond him.

François chuckles, and his eyes drop as he lets go.

The world rushes back in, like white noise becoming sound again, like he's waking up, like he'd been hypnotised. Perhaps he had. He wouldn't put it past those eyes... The sun is warm across his shoulders, the air full of sounds and smells of the track, and François is smiling down at him once more as Jackie blinks and tries to pull himself together.

"Surely I should be the one to be starstruck, yes?" François laughs, and the sound makes Jackie's face heat up as at the same time it sends a pleasant warmth through him.

"Maybe I was just that impressed," Jackie replies, reclaiming the upper hand with a tilt of his head and a twist of a smile he can't stop from creeping up onto his face even as he’s still wondering what on earth just happened to him, rocking forward onto his toes and stuffing his hands into his pockets, and François beams once more.

"Now you simply flatter me."

"Perhaps, perhaps not," and Jackie lets his own smile break out a little more. "I'll be keeping my eye on you though, you can be sure about that." He tries to say it like a schoolmaster, with mock seriousness, but there's no chance that François believes his tone even for a second, and he's smiling again as he raises his hands as if in surrender.

There's no chance to stay and talk, not right now – François’ mechanics are calling, and Jackie wants to catch Jochen before he leaves too – but Jackie will be seeing this French lad again, that much he's sure of. (A talent like that isn’t going to be forgotten any time soon.)

*

In the evening, he'll dismiss the swelling warmth in his chest when he thinks of that afternoon as coming from a race well driven, and his moment of giddiness as tiredness from driving, perhaps dizziness from dehydration; nothing more, nothing less, and certainly not something to lose sleep over. He tells himself that even as he falls asleep with a smile on his face, remembering bright eyes and a soft accent.


	2. 1970: Austria - Crescendo ("growing, intensifying")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a very short chapter missing about François joining the team that's meant to go before this one, but it was never a crucial one.

It's 1970 and Jackie's junior teammate is coming along nicely. It isn’t Jackie’s best season, blighted by retirements that had ruined what he’d thought could be a solid defence of his championship, and it certainly isn’t the best car, but François is learning fast. He's still jumpy at the moment, overenthusiastic and overconfident, but his raw talent is morphing steadily into refined and skilful speed. It will take some shaping, but he could be very good. Maybe even one of the best. Jackie is proud of him, and justifiably so, he feels; in a better car, Jackie is sure he would shine – he’s come so close to scoring points already this year. And if he spends perhaps a little more time mentoring the youngster than might be expected, it’s easy to justify when François always seems so keen to hear Jackie's advice; even when Jackie's rambling on about some tiny, inconsequential point, François is listening quietly and asking questions; the perfect student. Jackie isn't sure if his teammate is just politely indulging him, but the way François looks when he's concentrating, a soft and serious frown, as if he's carefully considering every word Jackie says, watching Jackie intently as he speaks, well, Jackie will allow himself to be indulged. It's probably not good for his ego, but everyone likes to feel appreciated from time to time. (And everyone else tells him he talks too much.)  
  
And he can't deny he's quite fond of the lad, so he's not going to complain if François keeps him company in the garage, or seeks him out after a session to discuss some small detail of the setup. But that's all it is – just a fondness, for a younger teammate who gives the impression of hanging on his every word. Maybe even friends, perhaps. (Though it doesn't do to have friends in this sport, as Jackie reminds himself he's learnt too many times already.) So that's all it is. Perhaps friends.  
  
Perhaps. Perhaps not. But some things Jackie doesn't dare to dwell on. He has to be a brave man to do what he does, but he knows when a risk is too much. And he doesn't even have to admit to himself what this might be to know that it would be far too much.  
  
"You are very quiet today, Jackie, this is not like you."  
  
The very source of his reflections takes a seat on the barrier next to him, smiling at the small jibe at Jackie's expense.  
  
"Yes, thank you François, I see you've joined the rest of the paddock in deciding I talk too much then."  
  
François keeps smiling. "What is it you say? Ah yes, _a penny for your thoughts_."  
  
"Who taught you that?" François shrugs. "Never mind. And I was just thinking about how much you've come on this season. It's very impressive."  
  
"You were thinking about me? I am flattered!" François grins, and Jackie shakes his head.  
  
"Your ego, François..." But he's smiling even as he's trying to give his teammate a disparaging look.  
  
"But I am glad I am making you proud."  
  
There's something about the sincere tone of François' reply which seems out of sync with their usual light-hearted ribbing, and as Jackie looks at him, the smile doesn't seem quite the same either, as if there's something else being said by it which Jackie doesn't think he's understood, and which he isn't going to try to dissect further.  
  
"Yes, well. That's good to know..."  
  
Just a fondness. That's all it is.


	3. 1970: Monza - Doloroso ("sorrowfully")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It isn't major character death according to the confines of this fic, so I haven't marked it in the warnings, but for the era, I guess it is major character death, so this is your warning...

It’s 1970 in Italy, nine miles northeast of Milan, in the sticky heat of early autumn in Lombardy. The stands are full of baying Tifosi, even during practice – a sea of red against scorching blue skies. This is the only place Jackie can understand the draw of Ferrari, the infectious pull that some drivers seem unable to resist. But he’s happy in blue, happy with Tyrell, happy working with Ken, happy alongside his young teammate. There’s a ring of red on his helmet, and a stripe on François’, and that’s enough for him.  
  
*  
  
It’s mid-afternoon on Saturday, still nine miles northeast of Milan, still in the sticky heat of early autumn in Lombardy. Nothing is different, not really. Except 28 drivers arrived that weekend, and tomorrow only 27 will go back home. This afternoon they lost Jochen.  
  
Jackie thinks of his choice of words. They’ve lost him. Not he’s died. Or been killed. When someone dies in this sport, it’s bigger than simply one man’s death. They’re all in it together, drivers and teams, wives and girlfriends, owners and mechanics. And they all feel the loss.  
  
When François spun the day before, Jackie had to resist the urge to cuff him one, when he came back laughing and joking about his silly spin, how exciting and exhilarating it had been. Jackie wanted to shout at him, tell him to wake up, that it isn’t a game (it’s a sport, but not a game, and he never stops being disturbed by the distinction he has to make), that he’s lucky to be alive. Now, when Jochen isn’t (Jochen of all people), Jackie doesn't have the heart to shout at François, or even to point out that this is the reality, and what the reality could have been yesterday. He doesn't need to though. The lad’s learnt his lesson, Jackie can see it in his demeanour, everything about him more serious and focussed than yesterday. Jackie wishes he hadn’t had to learn that lesson though, and certainly not like this.  
  
But it’s better than learning it the other way. And it hurts enough to lose Jochen. Jackie doesn't dare to think about how much it would hurt to lose François. He’s far too fond of the lad already. He knows it, even though he won’t admit it any further than that.  
  
He can’t let himself get any fonder.  
  
*  
  
He dreams that night that François’ spin doesn't end in the utterly unconcerned, dismissive laughter of youth. He wakes up feeling as if there’s a knife in his heart and stomach, fighting to breathe and fighting down nausea. The flood of relief when he remembers that François is alive makes him choke on his sobs, and isn’t extinguished when he remembers that Jochen is dead. The lack of guilt he feels about that keeps him awake until morning, staring at the ceiling in an Italian hotel room as Helen sleeps beside him.


	4. 1971: Paul Ricard - Nocturne ("of dreamy character")

It’s 1971, at Paul Ricard, and Jackie’s on the top step of the podium, with the champagne and the wreath about his neck and cameras clicking on every side as people jostle for a better view, team owners and mechanics and hangers on and dignitaries crowding around. It’s the third win already this season (the rain in Holland last time out already almost forgotten), his second hattrick of pole position, fastest lap, and race win, and his first time sharing the podium with François, on François’ first podium. And he’s on top of the world.  
  
He’d made so many promises to himself never to get close to anyone in this sport again. It wasn’t worth it, he knew that. Apparently though he hadn’t listened. François’ smile could illuminate a ballroom, even more purely and almost childishly delighted than the smile Jackie still can’t forget, couldn’t forget despite every false start he’s made at trying. And the way he’s grinning up at Jackie, hair wild and eyes shining, more alive than Jackie's ever seen him, makes him forget every one of his promises to himself, because it makes his heart swell with such immense pride, and this thing he’s come to call just “fondness” (because even though he knows it’s so much more than that now, perhaps always was, the other word still frightens him). Whatever he calls it though, it makes this moment feel so much more, and makes him dare to believe that perhaps, this time, it might be worth it after all.  
  
*  
  
It seems that even ever-sociable François tires of being the centre of attention after a while, because when Jackie escapes the party being held in their honour inside to a quiet and secluded corner of a lower terrace, he finds he’s not the first one there. In a shadowy corner there’s François, leaning on the stone balustrade, looking out to the gardens below, an almost silhouette of long limbs with a cigarette in hand, the end glowing faintly in the dark.  
  
For a brief few seconds, Jackie just stands, and allows himself to commit the image to memory. There’s something so inherently glamorous about François, and at moments like this it leaves Jackie in awe. It makes him feel almost justified in his own feelings too, because faced with François like this, Jackie is almost certain that no one could resist. He’s magnetic.  
  
François turns, making a motion with his cigarette in the air as an invitation to the man he must have known was standing there.  
  
“Fancy seeing you here,” Jackie says, doing his best impression of nonchalance, and joins François at the balustrade, holding his drink in both hands as he leans his forearms on the rounded stone, and looking down to the gardens beyond, the light spilling from the windows of the huge hotel casting sharp shadows of hedges and paths, and the faint moonlight hinting at their layout beyond. “Not like you to be out here by yourself.”  
  
François shrugs with just one shoulder and a tilt of the head.  
  
“Perhaps, perhaps not. I simply needed a moment.”  
  
Jackie understands, and nods slowly.   
  
The conversation stalls, and whilst it’s not uncomfortable, it feels heavier than normal somehow. And when Jackie looks up at his teammate, he has a serious, almost preoccupied expression.  
  
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Jackie asks, concerned. It had been a long day, yes, but this seems more than just a tired quietness.  
  
François seems almost startled, and looks down at Jackie, saying nothing for just long enough that Jackie starts to seriously wonder what's going on.      
  
“Would you think me forward if... You must tell me if I am...”  
  
The moment François meets his eyes he knows with absolute certainty that François is going to kiss him, with as much certainty as he’s known that he’s loved François practically since the first moment they first spoke (and yes, he’ll admit that now, he can’t help but admit it, even though it’s huge and terrifying). François' eyes catch the lights from inside, where the party carries on at decadent volumes even without them. They look darker somehow though, with an intent that Jackie can’t help but recognise for what it is. He can’t understand why it’s directed at him, but it’s there all the same, and he couldn’t resist if he tried.  
  
He tastes of wine and cigarettes, and he’s both harder and softer than Jackie ever would have expected, tender and strong at the same time, light and firm, so different from anything else he’s experienced, so much like he would have expected this to be had he ever allowed himself to imagine it (if he'd ever indulged in the train of thought that he knew was waiting for him the moment he stopped shutting every possible thought down), and it’s intoxicating. He wants it to go on forever, the tickle of François’ hair against his face, the gentle weight of François’ hand on his hip, just this almost innocent press of lips that manages to be so wonderfully intimate, taking over every thought in his head and focussing them onto this and this alone. There’s nothing beyond the two of them, the smell of his cologne mixing with the alcohol and smoke, the night air, the warmth of his body, so close but yet not touching, and the thoughts spinning in Jackie's head that this feels so heartbreakingly _right_ \- the one thing he never would have expected from it.  
  
François pulls back, his hand dropping away from Jackie’s hip, and Jackie remembers to breathe. He isn’t sure he even moved either.  
  
François is watching him carefully, almost guardedly, as if trying to read the expression on Jackie’s face. Not that Jackie has any idea what it would be right now. Probably astonishment. He’d never really done the subtleties of expressions that François did.  
  
“I have to ask,” he eventually blurts out. “why me? When there’s a room full of gorgeous young ladies back there desperate for your attention, and instead you’re, here...” Jackie waves an arm to finish his sentence, finding himself unable to find the words.  
  
For the briefest of moments François looks genuinely surprised. “Of all your possible reactions, that was one I had not prepared for,” he laughs softly. “Jackie, if I had wanted them, I would still be in there.”  
  
“No, not why not them. Why _me_? You could have half the men up there too if you wanted, I’m sure...”  
  
François looks like he’s weighing up replies, trying once more to read Jackie’s face in the gloom.  
  
“Because it is you, Jackie.”  
  
The expression and the tone of voice leaves Jackie in no doubt what he means – there’s an intensity to the tone that makes Jackie feel dizzy, and he has to put a hand out to the balustrade to balance. He 's only just admitted it to himself – to understand it in such magnitude coming the other way is overwhelming.  
  
“ _Christ_ , François...”  
  
When it was only him he could hide it, deny it, accept it as impossible and a terrible idea even to pursue the thought, when perhaps if there was ever a moment of possibility he could write it off as his own imagination, an impossible fantasy. But now François’ sincerity has demolished every wall and torn down every defence, and he feels uncomfortably exposed in front of so large a revelation.  
  
"Jackie?"  
  
"I just, need a minute François." His head is spinning, and he knows it's not from the alcohol. Perhaps he could do with another drink right now though.  
  
"Jackie, I am so terribly sorry, I should not have done that, please, I beg you, forget I ever..."  
  
"François, please," and François immediately silences, the badly hidden distress in his otherwise coolly composed voice leaving a tension in the air between them, and Jackie can see him itching to apologise again. Either that or leave, but he seems reluctant to do so without concluding his apology first.  
  
"I don't know what to do with this knowledge," Jackie admits. "I never thought..." What he never thought he can't say, because he never allowed himself to think it, not before now, when possibilities are running riot through his head.  
  
"You do not have to do anything. Only if, perhaps..."  
  
He looks up to find François watching him, waiting for a reaction either way, looking more uncertain than Jackie's ever seen him look, though his eyes remain hopeful somehow, and Jackie's utterly lost before he's even realised there was a battle to be fought, even if it was only against his own common sense and better judgement. It's a lost cause to try and deny François anything, least of all something he can't deny anymore even to himself.  
  
Jackie must be more transparent than even he realised, because François is back to smiling again, the rich, warm one, the truly genuine version of the one he uses on the girls at the track, and this time Jackie finds his hand at François’ waist, and then on the small of his back, holding tight to his shirt as François is kissing him again, cupping Jackie's cheek gently, almost reverently. François seems to kiss for the sake of kissing, for the sensation of it and it alone, like it’s an art in itself, and it sweeps Jackie away with him entirely, even more so than the first time, even though he hadn't thought that could be possible, leaving Jackie breathless and dizzy.  
  
“This probably isn’t the best place for this...” Jackie manages to mumble in a brief pause, after a length of time he couldn't measure. He knows he should be more worried about this than he is, but he seems to have lost all touch with reality, drunk on this, François just as able to make the world melt away now as he had been on the very first day they’d met.  
  
François looks at him again, and whilst his eyes are still dark, this time they’re laughing mischievously, and that look does things to Jackie that, for his own sanity, he’s not going to think too closely about right now. He glances up over Jackie’s shoulder to the other end of the terrace, and looks back down.  
  
“Perhaps, perhaps not. But we have a little more time before they come to look for us, I am sure.”  
  
On this matter, Jackie reckons that for once, he'll defer to François’ experience.


End file.
